


Song for David Bowie

by BohemianBeatle



Category: Bob Dylan (Musician), David Bowie (Musician)
Genre: Asocial Bowie, Bowie lives in the middle of nowhere, Crack, Cracked timelines, Forming friendship, Gen, Just my wonderful english, Maybe AR, Mentions of Monty Python, No Beta, No ladies here, Possibly OOC, lambs - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-10-02 06:52:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10211969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BohemianBeatle/pseuds/BohemianBeatle
Summary: Hearing David Bowie's song for him, Bob Dylan decides to pay a visit to this strange musician. The only problem with this is that Bowie doesn't really want to see Bob Dylan.The story takes place in July, 1971.and looking back, it makes me cringe a whole lot oh god





	

**Author's Note:**

> Original publication: April 9th, 2017.

It all started with a letter that David Bowie found in his mailbox on a Tuesday noon.

_Dear Mr. Bowie!_  
_I heard your song. In fact, I heard your entire album, and it was indeed glam, but that's not the point now. The point is: make my bed, 'cause I'm heading over there. We have to meet. Who knows, maybe we'll be like salt and pepper. See you on wednesday!_

_Bob Dylan_

 

David Bowie, glam rock star, looked up from the letter he held in his hand, horrified. Why was Dylan coming where he was? And why Wednesday? That's tomorrow! And anyway, can't he get something as simple as this - he doesn't want to meet him!? Of course, his words held truthful vengeance, yadda yadda yadda, but the 'i don't suppose we'll meet' part was correctly the 'i don't wanna meet you, you weird old bugger' part. But it seems he has to.

"And I thought this could be a good day," Bowie sighed, "and I don't even have room for him! Who does he think he is to just come here, without my permission? And who do I think I am? Of course, I thought I was smarter than this - why did I even say anything? It's always like that, you say something, then the other just gets what you didn't say... You better don't say anything."

But Dylan was coming there without any doubt, so he should work on the tiny guest room in his house. He didn't understand himself - why had he such a little room for his guests? Dylan better suffocates there, he thought sourly.

But by the end of the day, it was all clean and neat, ready for the Queen herself. Exhausted, Bowie went to bed, but before that, he blessed his mind for remembering to check the mailbox - what if suddenly a Dylan showed up on his doorstep, and he just stood there, with bed-hair, in his PJs, and he'd had no idea what to do with the folksinger in his house.

And in the next morning, it happened. Morning, what morning, it was before sunrise.  
There was a knock on his door, and another, and another, and one more, each getting more and more violent as they came.  
"Okay, okay, I'm coming, I'm here," mumbled a very sleepy Bowie, and opened the front door. There stood a very hyperactive, all smiles and everything - Bob Dylan.  
"Hi," he grinned, " I'm here. Bob Dylan, pleased to meet ya", and he extended his hand.  
Bowie stared at it, then looked Bob in the eye. The folksinger was switching from his toes to his heels, swinging and smiling. His eyes were sparkling amusedly, as he looked up and down the sleepy glam-rocker.  
"Good morning," David grabbed his hand, and showed the white of his teeth, hoping for Dylan to take it as a smile, and not as a snarl. "Please, enlighten me - why am I so lucky to have you in my house at half past five in the morning?" And he closed his mouth, curling his lips upwards, closing his eyes, and he kept shaking Dylan's hand.  
"Ya said ya don't suppose we'll meet. So, here I am, proving that ya were wrong. Oh, but I see you're still sleepy. Don't ya worry, I'll find my room, go back to sleep," Bob said, and he dragged his package inside the house. "What a nice comfy house ya got here, Bowie! I expected worse," he spun around, taking everything he saw in his memory.  
Bowie did as he was told, going back to bed, but he couldn't help but wonder just exactly how many coffees had Bob had, and how long will their effect last.

While Bowie went to sleep, Dylan decided to look around in the house. Yes, it wasn't very big, but he needed to be here. This David guy was clearly in need of a friend now, and who could be a better friend than he himself?  
He saw that David had cleaned up around the house. What a luck that he had sent him that letter, but, of course, he was the big alphabet Politeness, he wouldn't just... Break into another person's life, no, no.  
Bobby found the guest room, and, because he had nothing better to do, he began to unpack his things, starting with his clothes, his comb, his hat, his old scrapbook, his pencil case (he still had that pencil case he used in school), his pug-mug and things like that.

His quest was to make that Bowie a little less outleft, teach him that it's okay to trust people, and also make him show Bob good ol' England once he's here.

But now, finally, after like eighteen hours, the coffee's effect started to wear off, and he became more and more tired with every passing minute, with every step he had taken. So, he thought, David was asleep, so it wouldn't hurt anyone if he had to go to sleep as well.  
And he did. Within minutes, he was asleep in a bed in David Bowie's guest room, and if he was aware of how uncomfortable Bowie had acted that morning he didn't care at all, because he had made a promise to himself, that he won't leave until he's sure David will miss him.

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

A few hours later, David awoke to a terribly loud and annoying sound — snoring.  
Where did it come from? How has he not heard it earlier? He opened his eyes, only to find a curly haired, button-nosed, all-grins man, who was staring at him, breathing through his nose, just to make snoring noises.  
"What the hell, man?" Pushed David Bob's face out his personal space. Bob burst out laughing.  
"No, it's not funny at all, why the hell did you snore in my face?" David looked fairly annoyed but more than less surprised by what an idiotic thing had happened here. "Seriously, and I thought you were a wise man," Bowie told Dylan, who continued to laugh in a strange, raspy voice.  
"Sorry, man, but i had to wake ya up, y'know, it's nearly noon..." Bob finally said.  
"Yeah, so?" David raised his eyebrows.  
"Well..." Started Dylan, but in fact, he didn't have an excuse for why he snored into Bowie's face. He stood up from his kneeling position, dusted off his pants, and walked out the brit's room, who closed his eyes again, giving in to the quiet and peace. But not for long.

 

"DAVID! WHERE DO YA KEEP THE BUTTER?" Shouted Bobby from the kitchen, and with that, startling the sleepy Capricorn awake.

"In the fridge... Where else?" Mumbled he inaudibly, but somehow the other heard it from the other room, anyway.  
"Thanks!" Shouted back the folksinger, and soon, the smell of pancakes, then the scent of burned pancakes was spreading in the air.

David figured out that now he must wake up before his intruder set the house on fire, so he did just this. Rubbing his eyes, he walked in the kitchen with a bucket of water, and he cold-bloodedly poured it on the smoking oven.  
"Next time ask me if you want to do something here, please," he told the slightly taken aback Bob, who quickly nodded.

The sad part was that he still wanted pancakes.  
"David," he started, "can ya make them, then?"  
"What?" Asked David politely.  
"The pancakes, i mean. Can ya? Please? I've been aching for pancakes for weeks now!"  
The Englishman bit his lip, not quite sure if in uncomfortableness or amusement. Should he make anything for this little bugger, or just leave him?  
But he wanted pancakes, too. Why couldn't he make them, then? And maybe share them with Dylan, once he's here, just to prove himself that he isn't a complete assbutt.

"You know what?" He sighed, giving in. "I'm going to make pancakes. Real ones, not those fluffy toilet papers you call pancake in America, you see? And only under one condition - you say 'you', not 'ya'," he looked at Bob, sternly.  
"Great," grinned nervously Dylan, nodding quickly. He wasn't sure if he should be happy now, but he tried his best.

"So, say after me - Yamamoto Kansai, dry cleaning only." Bowie held up his index finger.  
"Why would this help me in saying 'you'? Bobby raised an eyebrow, then gasped. "I succeeded! Now, can you make those pancakes?"  
"Yes," said Bowie, and it was completely true. So, he did make them. The non-american pancakes. You maybe know them as crepes.  
When he served them, he was very proud that someone finally appreciates his work, because, before this, no-one noticed just how well he did in the kitchen. But now, with Bobby in it, it just felt way more like home.

The rest of the day went smoothly. Bob wanted to discover just exactly why the country and the local folks were the way they were, but for that, he had to go in town, so around lunchtime, he walked off, not caring about David's yells after him, like "but that's really far from here!"  
He managed to arrive after like two hours by feet. It wasn't _that_ far, and he's got all the time he needed.  
At home, after cooking himself a sad and lonely meal, Bowie went out to his garden to just sit there and have ideas. Just have them, why not? Maybe he'd write down the better ones, but that could wait. Just sitting there, lazing on a sunny afternoon, as some would say, it was really pleasant.  
He sat there for hours and hours. The sun was going down. What about dinner? He wasn't hungry, but he got up from sitting and prepared something god-knows-what for two people. But where was Dylan? Nowhere to be seen. Anyway, he'd just refrigerate it, and either of them could eat it when needed.

Bowie went to sleep after a long day of hard work. You could imagine, he was very tired. Exhausted, even. But when he closed his eyes, laying in his fluffy-fluff bed, somehow sleep avoided him. He couldn't do it.  
He tossed and turned for a while. And that was uncomfortable. But he didn't want to get out of his bed, so he didn't. Eventually, he fell asleep. But why eventually? What was bothering him? Normally, he could sleep anywhere, anytime. But now, something was ruining his sleep — where was that Dylan?

 

The next morning he got up early, in fact, he couldn't do it otherwise. Those seven hours of sleep were pure torture for him.  
He jumped out of his bed, to see if Bob was back. He knocked on the door of the guestroom but got no reply. Just to make sure if Dylan wasn't there, he silently opened the door, and peeked in.  
To his surprise, Bobby was there — but how did he look, oh boy! His nice, curly hair was clammy on his forehead, but also sticking up on the back of his head. The worst part of it was how it looked on the top of his head. Like a soaked puddle.  
The whole man was laying on the bed, but not in it, just on the covers. It seemed that he was too tired to even change, as he wore his day clothes, which were slightly torn and grey.  
Luckily, he took his shoes off. David, who was somehow relieved to see the other man there, in health, of course, told himself that the relief only came from seeing that Dylan wasn't getting mud all over his bed. That would be terrible.  
Now David realized that he was quite tired, too, as it was six in the morning, so he went back to his bedroom, absolutely not wondering about how and when had his guest come back, and even less about where he was. He just hoped that Bob liked England.

This time, David woke up first, at circa noon. And he was very surprised to find the glue-voiced poet still asleep. He didn't really know him, but he could tell that this wasn't normal, judging by yesterday's events, too. So, being the awesome host he was, he decided to check on him, just to make sure that he's alright.  
He pushed himself up on his elbows, then he pulled up his legs to his chest, then stretched them, and all in all, he pretended to be a cat, but sadly, he was not a cat.  
After five minutes of not being a cat, he was on his feet, and on his way to the guestroom.  
"Dylan, are you alive?" He questioned, walking in, but he immediately halted. Bob looked worse than normal, and worse than that morning, and that was quite something. I mean, how can someone look so bad by standards? But now, he looked just terrible, horrible, he was a kind of torture to look at.  
Bobby's nose was running, his hair was a complete mess, and he was snoring through his mouth as his aforementioned running nose was blocked. But how did he manage to snore through his mouth? God only knows.

"Gross," turned Bowie's face into something interesting, as he approached the bed. "Do I have to touch you, or will you wake up if i raise my voice?" He asked the still very much sleeping American kindly. As this sleeping American didn't respond, because, you know, he was _asleep_ , he made his decision — he would touch the human.  
And he did just that. He poked Bob in the ribs, who twitched at this, snorting, but fortunately managing to keep the snot in his nose.  
"So he can move," stated David. "Do you wanna wake up?" Now he shook the poor man with all his might, who just moaned, like 'naaah'.  
"BuT yOU HavE tO WAke UP," Bowie told Bobby.  
"Don'wanna," the other muttered, slightly shaken. And yeah, he _was_ shaken, remember? Ugh.

Now what could David do with someone who doesn't want to get up? Oh, wait, he's probably sick, dropped the coin in David's mind, finally.  
"I can make you tea, and you'll be back on your feet in no time, right?" He asked Dylan, smiling, who responded with a 'dat wuld be nice'.  
"Little weakling, can't handle weather like this. But it's summer. Awful." And he went to boil the water.  
He made chamomile tea because his mother told him that people with a cold appreciate chamomile tea the most. Or was that ginger tea? Or lime-flowers? He wasn't good at... Science. Botanics. Herbs. Yeah, botanics. He was good in science.  
He settled down with chamomile tea. At least that tasted good, with a lot of honey.

Not much time has passed, and he was standing by the again-sleeping Bob Dylan's bed, with a neat tray in his hands, teacups and a jug and lemon juice and everything you need, babe, on it.  
"Bob?" He called out in a surprisingly human voice towards the man who broke into his house, then settled down, then was barely there, then got sick — he wouldn't admit it, but Bowie started to like the man. "I made you chamomile tea. My mother's recipe, you see."  
To this, Bob cracked one of his eyes open.  
"Oh, dank ya," he grumbled out in an even more sand-and-glue-like voice than he used to. And he was saying 'ya' again, but Bowie didn't mind it, because when he was sick, he said 'ya', too.  
Dylan sat up on the bed, taking a cup from the tray. He poured tea in it and waited for Bowie to do the same.  
Then they just sat there for a while, taking sips from their cups, and Dylan held his pinkie far away from the rest of his fingers because he thought that would be really funny. But it wasn't.  
David just ignored this, and instead, he tried to make a conversation. With a topic in which he found himself to be actually concerned.  
"Where were you last night?" He asked, looking at Dylan seriously, not knowing that this would be the title of a hit song of Bobby's nearly twenty years later. At the time, Bobby himself didn't know this.  
"Well, ya see, i went out to explore this strange new land, but i didn't get too far away before it started to rain. To this, i started to race the raindrops and began to run, and soon i fell, but i continued, and once i found a town, and a pub in it, and from then on, it's a nice and pleasant blur," Bobby explained. Bowie hummed in agreement. "I understand," he said, and it was true. He also knew he'd never know when did Bob get home, but at least he was alive. Just imagine it, if Dylan's fans found out that their god died while he was his guest — it would be the end of his career. "Now, you go back to sleep, by the time you wake up, this awful c-c-c-cold will be just a fly's wing. And also, there are handkerchiefs if you need them. Goodnight," and he stepped out of the room, taking the tray with him, just to return to pull the curtains together. Not as if it bothered Bobby, he was out like light. 

And when Bobby woke up in the evening, he felt loads better. Better than ever. He was very energized, his nose was clean and his head didn't hurt. He went into the bathroom and did bathroom things, shaved, changed his clothes, rubbish like this. Then he went to look for Bowie, just to have his daily connection with people. He was a social butterfly, you see. He found him in the small living room, turning the latest edition of the Rolling Stone magazine. When he saw Bobby, David looked up from his reading and asked: 

"Do you feel any better?" Why did he ask, i don't know. He knew it for sure that Bobby will feel better when he wakes up, but he just asked. This man's made him too talkative. 

"Oh, yes, i do. Do you know if today a hard rain's a-gonna fall, or just a light one, or none at all, and if you know some nice place to visit, that would be gear, too", Bob babbled.

"Oh, no, don't dream of it. I can't let you out there tonight. In fact, it's gonna rain all week, and there will be thunderbolts and lightning, and it will be just very very frightening, for me, at least. I suggest you stay inside and play chess. How does it sound?"  
"Wonderful," sighed Bobby. Hell, he just knew this would be amusing!

So they played chess, then dame. The Marocco, then Barkochba. Then Bobby tried to do something exciting, like Truth or Dare, but by then, Bowie got tired, and called it a day, leaving his hyper-guest alone, saying that he's got the whole Monty Python's Flying Circus series, and recommended to watch that if he wants to learn more about England, and then he left. Fifteen minutes later, he came back, slightly trembling. It was loud outside. He tapped Dylan's shoulder, whose eyes were fixed on the telly, saying that if he wants to sleep, he has some kind of sleeping pills.  
Bobby looked up at him, wondering why wasn't he asleep. He looked pretty tired. He, who slept through the whole day couldn't complain, he felt good, but what did Bowie do to look like this?

"I'm good, thanks," he finally said, tearing his eyes from the screen, again, because they just looked at it every time, a-ga-in. "But are you?" He continued, just slightly concerned.  
"Erm, yes, i'm fine, too, thank you. Just gonna take some of these pills, then i'll be asleep in minutes. You know, i just don't really like this kind of weather here," David said, and it was like he just told a big secret. Maybe he did.  
"Then why do you live here?" Asked Bob, and he was oh-so-right. "You said it's gonna be like this all week. These pills are not very good for your health, you see."  
"Oh, _you_ know it," replied Bowie bitterly. Even he knew what kind of past Dylan had had with various kinds of pills.

Now both of them were taken aback by the surprisingly logical ways of thinking the other had. And by the sudden sound of thunder out there. David flinched. "Eh," he said intelligently, grabbed a few pills and a glass of water, and quickly paced towards his bedroom, quicker than Bobby could even react. The door was slammed. Bobby, not knowing what to do with the obviously scared man, turned back to the telly, where the Pythons were learning how to defend themselves against fresh fruit. "Brits," he sighed, and just watched the show, over and over again. By the time the sun came up, he knew it was time and made up his mind; he'd help Bowie. The first step, get him out of bed. He needed to live like a human being, not an owl. A frightened, scared of lightning owl. So, he found himself standing before Bowie's door, and loudly knocking on it. "Bowie! David! Open up and make coffee! You can't stay there all morning, you're going to ruin your... Everything! David, are you there? David, answer me, David, David, oh, wherefore art thou, David? David, are you awake? David, are you alive? David, David, DAVID, Daviiiiiiiiiiid!"

Bob believed this was annoying enough to get him up. But as no sound came from behind the door, he somehow got an even better idea.  
"David, if you don't get up right now, I'll bring my harmonica!" And he waited for the other's reply. And it came! Or, a very unintelligent mumble, like 'how do you come to threaten me', and 'God help us', and 'just leave me here, or i will make sure...' But he never finished this sentence, so Dylan never found out just exactly what will David do.  
"Okay, _David_ , i'm coming in!" He said, and tried to fulfill his promise, but failed miserably. "Key," he said angrily, but in a matter of fact, and he was absolutely right. Key. A thing he didn't own in this house. So he decided to talk the glam-man out of his nest.  
"David, if you want to, i can make the coffee, too. People say i make great coffee. Don't you wanna try it? Then you could say that Bob Dylan made you coffee one day, and it was the best coffee you've ever drunk. But hey, wake up, sleepyhead, put on some clothes, shake off your bed, put another log on the fire for me, I've made some breakfast and coffee."  
"OKAY, QUOTING ME DOESN'T WORK!" Cut into his words Bowie with his own, but Bobby carried on.  
"A crack in the sky... All the nightmares came today, and it looks as though they're here to stay... Oh." Something clicked in Bobby's mind, and at the same time, Bowie's lock clicked, too. And there he stood. Bowie.

He wasn't very happy. Quite the opposite, to be honest — he seemed unhappy. And tired. Those pills seemed to wear him off. He shouldn't take them.  
But why was he so madly afraid of thunderstorms? They were natural and not at all scary. Bobby knew he'd find it out sooner or later. But not just yet. Now it's coffee time.  
Bobby smiled in a charming way:  
"Is it safe to boil the kettle?" He smirked, hoping for a positive reaction from Bowie.  
"Haha," reacted positively Bowie. "That was good," he continued, because he was polite.  
Together, they headed towards the kitchen, where Bowie boiled the water because that was safer, and Bob made the coffee, because that was better.  
"How about actually going out and doing something today?" Asked Dylan, who was eager to finally do something while he's here.  
"Okay, we can do that," agreed Bowie, sighing. He knew that Zimmerman wouldn't leave and leave him alone 'til they explored at least a field of grass.

The coffee, as Bowie found out, was indeed very good. Surprisingly good, he didn't even know how Bobby did it. But some things just won't be discovered, and it's better like that.  
They drank it in peaceful silence, sometimes glancing at each other because after all, you don't get to see such stars up close every day. Bobby had found that Bowie's hair, what was not yet combed and styled, looked ridiculous, but somehow suited the man. And his legendary eyes were really nice, honestly.  
Bowie noticed how tangled Bob's hair was in the morning, how his eyes tried to search him time to time, and how protectively his palms curled around his mug.  
So, they just looked, not knowing what to say, or not daring to say anything, in Bobby's case. He wanted to say so many things, but it seemed this wasn't the right time.

After they finished, they did what people do after finishing coffee. Then, in half an hour, both of them were ready to go anywhere.

"So, where did you plan to go, lad?" Asked David, looking at Bob.  
"Well, ya see, i know this one song, it goes like: 

_And did those feet in ancient time_  
_Walk upon England's mountains green:_  
_And was the holy Lamb of God_  
_On England's pleasant pastures seen!_  
So i'd like to see England's pleasant pastures." Dylan grinned at Bowie, who scratched the back of his head. His own head.  
"I see you liked Monty Python," he stated, glad to finally have something in common with Dylan, and glad to be able to control himself so he won't tell Bowie that he sounds like a frog. Maybe he knows it. And whatever, because he himself sounds like one, too.

"Yeah!" Bobby's eyes glistened, and he looked overall happy and excited, just because he knew he was going out. Like a pupper. To be honest, the whole Bob Dylan reminded Bowie of a poodle. He liked poodles.  
"You wanna bring a guitar?" Bowie asked, and he knew the answer before it was said, and well, je ne regrette rien.  
"YEAH!" Bobby screamed at the top of his lungs. "Whoo!" He added quietly, and Bowie couldn't help but grin.

"Okay, so i know this nice meadow not very far away. Usually, there are sheep and everything, and trees, and it is nice, really. Maybe we could go there. With guitars. Maybe clear off our minds. Write something," he added shyly, not knowing how the two of them would work together.  
"Groovy!" Dylan said, and not long after, they were walking to that meadow.

"So, how often do you go there?" Asked Bobby, looking at David from under the brim of his hat.  
"Just about as often as i leave the house."  
"And that's...?"  
"Not very often," Bowie furrowed his brows, casting a glance at the other, then adjusted the stripe of his guitar case on his back, stubbornly. "I like to work at home."  
"I see," nodded Dylan, thinking about the Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands, which he wrote in a Chelsea Hotel... Still, not at home.

They walked in silence. It wasn't a very comfortable silence, but it wasn't a kill-me silence, either. Both of them were lost in their amazing, amazing, creative minds. You just never know what will they come up with next time.  
For example, Bobby noticed how Bowie walked. Looking at his feet, walking in a straight line, heels and toes bumping together as he walked. It looked quite weird, but hey, if that makes him feel good, then why not walk like that?

Then Bob took notice of his surroundings, and he was in awe. England looked very right for his taste. Somehow raw, but still elegant, as they walked on the side road, with guitars on their backs. Very aesthetically pleasing.

Then he saw it. The first lamb.

"David," Bobby started, but couldn't continue. He stared in awe at the sheep, and he thought it would be nice to pet it. So he walked towards it.  
"Bob, no!" Bowie yelled, but he was too late. Bob was lost to the sheep, touching it from its head to the tip of its tiny little hoof, and he felt like he just met the greatest creature of them all. It reminded him of his childhood, somehow.

They spent like twenty minutes with that sheep, and by the time the twenty minutes were up, Bowie petted the sheep, too. He didn't know why, but the way Dylan petted it was very convincing, so he ended up in the mud beside Bob, and the sheep felt more love than it did since forever.

Then they finally were in the meadow. Just like some black crows, sleeping across a broad highway.  
The sky's colour was dark grey and pale blue. It was overcast, but it didn't look like it would rain for a few hours, still.  
Bobby and Bowie had found some logs where they could sit, and Bob packet out the guitar he carried. Bowie didn't seem to mind, it seems today he was in the mood for some folk rock. What a rare moment.

"So, i wrote a song for you, too, David. It's not like my usual songs, so i guess i'll just say i wrote it later in my life, not now, and it'll be alright. Here it goes." And Bob played a pretty weird song, with weird lyrics and weird hums in between, because he only had a guitar, but it was a fairly good song, and Bowie liked it.

"Why did you write a love song for me?" He asked, after Bob's makeshift solo was over.  
"Well, i dunno. Why not?" Asked the other back, and he was right. Why not?

They spent another hour talking and making music, and Dylan wasn't as terrible as he seemed. He still was slightly annoying, but who wasn't? He was bearable. Still, they were absolutely different, and hardly had a thing in common, but at least they learned something new. Sometimes it has to happen.

Suddenly, the rain started falling. Okay, not so suddenly, but the two were in the middle of a discussion about how sunglasses can affect the way we crunch our noses when the rain came, and they had to run and hide their heads, otherwise, their hair would be a mess. They didn't want that, so they packed up, and ran back to Bowie's place.

When they were back, they dried off, and they still had to fix their hair.  
"Tea?" Bowie offered, and some time later they were sitting in front of the telly, watching something and drinking tea.  
Then the phone rang.  
"It's for you," Bowie motioned to Bob to pick up the phone.  
"Wait, how do you know? Don't they usually phone up people who own the phones?"  
"Not me. Hey, pick it up finally!"

Bobby did, and it turned out to be one of his friends of the million. One, who spent his life stabbing Dylan's picture with a bowie-knife, and he barfed in the phone.  
"Yeah, yeah, i see... Yeah, i just... No, i don' understand this! Talk, don' barf! Oh... Okay, well. Bye."  
Bobby then turned to Bowie.  
"He wants me to go home." There. He said it.  
"When? Now?"  
"No, tomorrow."  
"But you've only been here for two days!" Bowie burst out.  
"Brilliantly observant, you are."  
"Well! But you'll go?"  
"I'll hafta, you know. I'll just pack my things. I'll leave early, okay? He gets mad, that one of my friends. I just wanna say that i liked it here. Bye."

And with that, Bobby went back to the guestroom, to fulfill his promise.  
"Wait," said David, but it went unheard.

The following morning, he woke with the sun, but still, he wasn't early enough. Bob had already left, without a word.  
"Well," he sighed, "you learn something new every day. I thought a social butterfly like him would at least say a proper goodbye."

**Author's Note:**

> Well, there you go!  
> I hope you liked it. Poor Bowie, tho.  
> How many song references did you find?  
> I'll tell you, the song that Bobby wrote for Bowie was 'Stardust' from his newest album. And he didn't write it. It's a very old song.


End file.
